


In which Inspector Bucket, working too hard, finds himself possessed of a cold.

by TheMalhamBird



Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: Flu, Illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 10:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspector Bucket spends falls asleep in his office whilst contemplating the Marely Case. The next morning finds him unwell, and ignoring the fact. Both Fagin and Venus do their best to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Inspector Bucket, working too hard, finds himself possessed of a cold.

Midnight.

The candles in Inspector Bucket’s study have burnt themselves out, and with them has gone the last vestiges of heat in the building. The police station was built with stone and without fireplaces; the frost from outside sneaks in and leaves a chill that will linger well in to spring. Inspector Bucket’s cane is leant up against the wall. His hat rests on one corner of the desk. The Inspector’s head rests on his folded arms; his shoulders are hunched unconsciously against the cold, and his gentle snores and quiet breathing somehow make the room seem even more silent.

He is not woken until the next morning, when cold sunlight begins to filter through the barred window and across his face. He wakes, squinting against the light, and bleary pushes himself upright and fishes for his pocket watch. Half past the hour of seven, the small hands scold him: Mrs Bucket will not be pleased. Clenching and unclenching his frozen fingers, wincing at the pain stiffening in his back, Mr Bucket struggles to his feet. He is shivering inside his coat, and hastily does up the buttons before scooping up his hat and ramming it on to his head. He snatches the cane as he passes, and resolves to warm himself by a brisk walk to find breakfast.

He is still shivering when he steps in to the ale-house and buys a freshly baked pie from Mrs Cratchit. His hands shake slightly as he hands her the money, and she frowns, concerned.

“Feeling well, Inspector?”

“Quite well, thank you. And yourself?”

“Well my husband ain’t in prison,” she says, lips quirked as she glares at him.

Bucket sighs. “Am still-“he breaks off, turning his head to one side as he coughs, spluttering. “Forgive me,” he apologises. “Am I still not forgiven?” he finishes.

“For my Bob or for that coughing?” Mrs Cratchit asks, nodding at him. “You quite sure you’re well?”

Inspector Bucket smiles genially. “Quite,” he says again. “How is your littl’un?” he adds, remembering what she told him a few days previously

. Mrs Cratchit falters a little. “Sarai says we ought to give him some fruit and red meat,” she says. “But with things…as they are…”

“If Mr Cratchit can spare some time,” Bucket says gently. “I have some letters as could do with being written up. My own hand is somewhat lacking, my inclination being to use my left-but as I say. If Mr Cratchit- or one of the children, come to that- can spare the time, I can spare five shillings for the work.”

Mrs Cratchit’s eyes widen. She recognises both the charity and the attempt to disguise it. Five extra shillings will buy meat enough for more than two weeks. “That’d be kind of you,” she says, nodding slightly.

Bucket raises his hat in acknowledgment, and scoops up his pie.

He doesn’t find himself overly hungry, and so he stows it in his pocket to keep for later.

* * *

 

Ragged children shriek and dart after each other in the street.

Normally, this cheers Mr Bucket. The Inspector is fond of children; he finds comfort from the grim realities of the world he investigates in their unbridled joy as they play, unheeding of the adults around them. Today, he finds that same joy inexplicably irritating, and the urchins’ playing gets them underfoot and in his way. He grumbles under his breath. The children forget their games momentarily to stare in disappointment after the man who, has always had kind smiles for them before, but now offers only a slight scowl.

Inspector Bucket does not notice the upset; he is too much focused on ignoring the throbbing in his skull.

So focused, in fact, is Inspector Bucket, that he collides in to someone, knocking in to them with enough force to spend them sprawling.

“Watch where you’re going, will you!” the youth spits, as he picks himself off the floor and brushes himself down. Bucket regards him with surprise for a moment, then his features settle in to a displeasured frown.

“Master Compeyson,” he drawls. He has had dealings with this man before; Compeyson is the worst kind of villain. At least men such as Fagin admit that they act to the detriment of the law; Compeyson likes to pretend he is merely ‘helping’ the poor fools he fleeces.

Compeyson freezes, then displays a beguiling smile. “Inspector Bucket!” he says, “why this is unexpected. What brings you to town?”

“Murder, master Compeyson” Bucket says sardonically, “as you have doubtless heard-”

“Ah yes. Poor Jacob Marely. Such a shame.”

“Is that so?” Bucket asks. “And would those sentiments be because Mr Marely was helping you pay for some scam or other?”

Compeyson’s innocent smile does not reach his eyes. “Scam, Inspector? Whatever makes you think I’m trying to scam someone? I’m merely staying with a friend whilst I seek…honest employment.”

“See that you do, Master Compyson,” Bucket warns. “Because if I don’t get you for something, Mister Fagin will.” He brushes past the creature, cane swinging and makes a mental note to investigate this ‘friend’ of Compeyson. Assuming he can spare the time from the Marely case- He breaks out in to another fit of coughing, breath hanging frozen in the air in front of him. It is bad enough that he is forced to stop until it subsides a good minuet or so later. Sighing, the Inspector thinks briefly of a carriage home, and his small bedroom next to Mrs Bucket’s and Mrs Bucket herself, who will doubtless scold him for being away all night and then bundle him in to his nightshirt and dressing gown and between the covers-

And then another day shall have been lost, and he shall be no nearer to catching Jacob Marely’s killer than he was when the case first opened. Besides which, his one-pound-thirteen-shillings-and-ten-pence a week is a sum of money which the likes of Bob Cratchit are unlikley ever to hold in their hands at once time unless it is borrowed, at exorbitant rate- Bucket is determined to earn the living that allows him a comfortable home and a wife who might worry about when she will next see her husband, but has no concerns as to what she will feed him when he does appear. Fagin, he decides: he will go to see Fagin again…warn him that Compeyson is sniffing around…then what, Inspector Bucket does not quite know. He doubts the crook will give him anything useful, although he might be able to wheedle something, or, or…

 

“Back again, my dear?” Fagin asks, lifting his eyebrows as he looks up at the figure who has appeared noiselessly in his doorway. “You look unwell, Mr Bucket. Sniffing around murders will have unforeseen consequences for your health, you know.”

* * *

 

“Was that a threat, Fagin?” Bucket asks.

His nasally voice has gone slightly hoarse, Fagin notes; he is blinking rapidly, as if he is uncertain what he is doing here. Certainly unwell, Fagin thinks, and gives a small sigh.

“It was concern, my dear. Why, I would never dream of having you removed from the picture of my little world. It would eliminate all the comedy!” Bucket opens his mouth to retort, bursts out coughing instead. He fishes for a handkerchief in his pocket and dabs his mouth. “Compeyson’s back,” he rasps

 Fagin opens his eyes wide. “You don’t think he murdered Mister Marely, do you, Mr Bucket?”

“You and I both know that it was one of yours that done Marely,” Bucket snaps.

“You have some proof to these injurious claims?” Fagin enquires pleasantly.

“The death of a man such as Marely was bound to draw the attention of the constabulary,” Bucket says. “No one would attack a gent on your patch without your permission.”

“And yourself included, I dislike the Constabulary, so why on earth would I give permission for something that would bring the likes of you down upon me?” Fagin shakes his head. “Really, Mr Bucket. I think you ought to go home and rest. Your mind is not so sharp today.”

Bucket stares at Fagin. Fagin stares back. They have a History, these two; they have been both foe and friend given occasions for which an alliance of law and criminality has been deemed necessary by one or the other. Bucket will see Fagin hang for his innumerable crimes; Fagin will see Bucket kneeling in the tattered ruins of his own law abiding morality, shattered beyond repair- and both of them will see the very worst of human savagery halted in its’ tracks.

“Go home, my dear.” Fagin repeats gently. “Jacob Marely will still be dead in the morning.”

He returns to his ledgers. When he looks up again, Bucket has vanished.

* * *

 

The pounding in Bucket’s head increases as he emerges back in to the hub of the city and he is shivering worse than ever. His back adds to his misery; his spine protests at the position he inflicted upon it last night when he dozed off over his desk. Beyond that, every muscle in his body seems to be aching- every stumble forward he makes now seem agony. Home, he thinks, bed- only it seems too much of an effort to get there now. Inspector Bucket wishes he could simply curl up in a doorway and sleep there.

He barely remembers seeing Fagin.Compeyson is gone from his mind entirely. He wonders how he can have come down with the cold so quickly, pointedly ignoring the nagging suspicion at the back of his mind that it has been brewing for some time and he has simply neglected to take notice. Struggling on, Inspector Bucket makes his way towards Venus’ workshop, and is flooded with a weary relief once he is inside, and can slump against the door. Venus looks up, and raises his eyebrows.

“I told you, Inspector. You were not well when you came in yesterday morning; you are certainly not well today.”

“Thank you for that observation, Mr Venus.” Bucket grumbles, his mouth a thin slash.

“I’m surprised Mrs Bucket let you out of bed this morning.”

“I wasn’t at home this morning, I was in my office sleeping at the desk.” Bucket confesses, wincing as he leans down to undo his shoes. He pulls the laces from each of them and sits back upright. It takes a great effort to do so; Bucket’s face twists in pain, and Mr Venus starts forward.

“Let me-“

Inspector Bucket waves him away.

“I just want to sleep,” he says, easing the shoes off each foot with the toe of the other. He slips his hand in his pocket, and pulls out the pie he brought this morning, offering it out to Venus. “Have this,” he says as Venus takes it from him. “Repayment for all the meals I’ve had from you.” He lies down on his side, bringing his stockinged feet up on to the sofa and closes his eyes.

Mr Bucket is longer than the sofa; he must curl up- his back, Venus thinks, will take a great deal of setting right when he is feeling better. He sighs, and steps towards the detective, placing a hand on his forehead. The detective flinches slightly, and so does Venus-it is burning. “I’m going fetch Sarai,” he says. “See what she makes of this.”

“It’s just a cold,” Bucket mumbles. His eyes are still closed.

“I’m going for Sarai,” Venus repeats. “It might be a cold- it might be influenza.”

He leaves, setting off for the Three Cripples, where the nurse will surely be. Inspector Bucket thinks drowsily that he should perhaps ask Venus to send a message to Mrs Bucket when he returns.

Outside, it begins to snow once more.


End file.
